


Flowers In a Thunderstorm

by plumedy



Category: The King's Speech (2010)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Magical Realism, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 16:42:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5463701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumedy/pseuds/plumedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That’s not how my powers work.”</p><p>“That’s how <i>everyone’s</i> powers work. I’ve been trying to explain this to you from the beginning.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flowers In a Thunderstorm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynndyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/gifts).



Bertie is five years old, and he watches his father inspect a military parade. The mounted officers’ cockades glimmer in the dry blistering heat; but the gold on his father’s epaulettes shines brighter. Each shoulder of the King’s uniform is like an apple-sized sun, giving off a paradisiacal glow.

The King’s face is red, beads of sweat sitting on his nose and his brow. He’s frowning; the battalion is not to his liking.

Bertie can feel a raw, angry power in every step of his father’s dappled grey horse. The massive hooves are slowly moving against the pavement - _clip-clop, clip-clop._

“Fall in!” commands a nervous young officer with curly ginger hair sticking out from beneath his helmet. The battalion obediently shuffles into a parade formation.

“Attention!”

George V lifts his hand in a soft white glove and beckons the officer closer. Bertie wonders if he’s the only one who can see that the officer’s little chestnut stallion reacts to the gesture before his owner does.

“Very well, Colonel-“

“MacBride,” the officer supplies eagerly. “Colonel MacBride, Your Royal Majesty.”

“Proceed, MacBride.”

Being in the immediate vicinity of the King is clearly not helping the poor colonel’s confidence. He looks trapped.

After clearing his throat and throwing an anxious glance at his soldiers, he spurs his stallion forward a little.

“Left-“ he shouts, and then cuts himself off, “right dress!”

The battalion ripples in confusion. The majority of the soldiers smartly snap their heads to the right, but a dozen of the younger ones turn to the left instead, and some remain still, staring at the colonel with lost expressions.

Bertie shuts his eyes. This is a disaster.

When, a few moments later, he dares to look again, his father has grown a few shades redder, his mouth under the thick wheaten moustache tense with indignation. The colonel’s mount is backing away, cowering, his thin sinewy legs dripping with foam.

Then the horse falls. He sinks to the ground awkwardly, rolling his golden brown eye; MacBride, reduced to the state of perfect terror and humiliation, crawls away on all fours, barely avoiding getting his leg crushed.

The sun shines upon the stallion’s heaving sides. The air is crackling with power.

 

Bertie swears, imaginatively and at length. He’s got better at this, so much better that he occasionally manages to surprise Lionel with some of the more intricate linguistic constructions.

“I am bloody well going to refuse,” he concludes, subsiding a little. His brow is still twitching with anger, his hands balled nervously into fists. “No speeches for me. I’ll just refuse and that’ll be the end of it.”

Outside, the pavements are boiling with water. Thunder rumbles powerfully, shaking the clouds like mountains. Lionel can see Bertie register this, for the first time since the beginning of his tantrum; can see his face pale and his jaw lock.

“I d-didn’t mean it,” Bertie gets out weakly, backing away. He flops on the couch, which gives a sad creak in response; it seems he has to make an effort not to cover his face with his hands. “I didn’t mean any of it. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Lionel slowly walks closer and sits down on a chair, trying to catch Bertie’s eye. Bertie recoils, shaking his head in mute desperate protest.

“It’s all right,” Lionel says, in soothing tones. “Don’t be afraid. You haven’t hurt me.”

This doesn’t seem to quite convince Bertie, but at least he’s no longer trying to get away. They sit for some time in silence.

“Why not?” Bertie finally asks, his voice flat.

“Because you don’t want to.” Lionel studies his face more closely and concludes, a trifle self-consciously, “You’re terrified of hurting me.”

“That’s not how my powers work.”

“That’s how _everyone’s_ powers work. I’ve been trying to explain this to you from the beginning.”

“And you’re an expert on m-magic, aren’t you?” Bertie raises an eyebrow. “I still don’t know what yours is.”

For a wonder, Lionel suddenly looks embarrassed. His big bony fingers are playing with the corner of an old grey blanket lying on the couch.

“I have green fingers,” he says at last, and sighs. Bertie looks, dumbfounded, as Lionel raises his palms and a large white flower blossoms in them, its thin damp petals uncurling into a halo. A whiff of honey tickles Bertie’s nostrils.

“I’ll just go make some tea, then,” grumbles Lionel after a pause, awkwardly stuffing the flower into Bertie’s hands. It lies there, beautiful, fragrant, and entirely out of place.

Bertie feels some of his anger and fear dissolve into something not unlike amusement.

“And you, you are trying to teach me something about how to handle magic, Logue?” Bertie says at Lionel’s back. He does his best to sound stern, but doesn’t wholly succeed. “My gift could literally kill.”

“So could mine,” Lionel parries sharply, turning a little way. His light eyes are gleaming, and Bertie blinks, more than slightly taken aback. “You know, I can grow more than pretty flowers.

“Ever heard of _Aconitum napellus_? Wolf’s bane. Ingesting a couple of leaves means agonizing death. How about the manchineel tree? It scalds your skin when you so much as brush against it. Then there are hemlock, deadly nightshade, white snakeroot-“ Lionel cuts himself short, noticing the intimidated expression on Bertie’s face.

“-Giant man-eating lianas,” he adds hastily.

Bertie relaxes a little.

“I get the idea, thank you,” he says, with an uncertain smile. “What was that about the tea?”

Lionel offers a slight smile of his own and retreats into the kitchen. Bertie waits for him, listening curiously to the furious patter of the unceasing rain outside.

 

Bertie’s gaze falls on the figure of a woman.

She’s in her early forties, wearing a long grey overcoat and a dull orange scarf. A little boy - her son? - is running around her, tugging at her sleeves.

She catches Bertie staring at her and frowns, the worry lines on her face sharpening. _What does this stranger want with us?_ She seems to be thinking.

Bertie finds himself frowning back and experiences a small prickle of fear and guilt. He tries to smile at her instead, and knows that his smile looks like a scowl.

Lionel is observing the silent scene all the way through; and now he clears his throat to attract Bertie’s attention.

“Could you depress half of Yorkshire?” He asks, continuing an earlier conversation. “Could you keep Exeter happy for a week? I don’t think so.”

“I’ve already explained it. There’s an unbreakable bond between me and my future subjects-“

“That is as it may be.” Lionel carefully steps over a puddle and uses the tip of his shoe to shuffle a pile of blazing autumn leaves to one side of the road. He’s often oddly particular about plant matter, Bertie has noticed, trying to see to it that it all goes into the earth rather than being stomped into the asphalt.

“But, Bertie,” he continues, “what you’ve told me - it’s a sad story. However, it’s hardly an example of a striking and uncontrollable power. I gather even the horse was all right in the end.”

“Yes,” Bertie acquiesces. “But my father was more suited to handling his gift than I am, Lionel.” He bites his lip in poorly repressed anguish, staring away from the road.

Lionel looks at him sideways and sighs.

“ _Is_ it really about control? I think it might just be about an irritable old man prancing about on a horse for a longer time than was good for his health.”

That gets a feeble laugh from Bertie.

“Father used to be like this,” he acknowledges. “He’d never listen to his doctors.”

They walk across more puddles, and Lionel does some more leaf-shuffling. A couple of times Bertie tentatively follows his example, his efforts rewarded with a pleased nod.

“Your subjects are going to be all right.” Lionel says at length, and puts a gentle hand on Bertie’s shoulder. Bertie’s grateful for that, so grateful he can’t quite bring himself to acknowledge it, and he keeps staring away silently.

There’s that woman again. She and the boy are sitting on a bench now, and she’s fumbling with the boy’s hat, tying the laces under his chubby chin. He laughs, and with a sort of absurd relief Bertie sees her smile back. She fishes a candy out of her pocket and puts it into his grinning mouth.

“Your influence is a ripple on the surface of their lives,” comes Lionel’s calm voice. “Even as King, you’re but a fleeting presence. They will watch the coronation and go right home, back to their families, their daily routines.”

Bertie stares, fascinated by how oblivious the woman seems now.

“Ah, the coronation,” he says at last, turning back reluctantly and falling into step with Lionel. “That’s going to be a dreadful affair.”

“I don’t see why it should be.” Lionel compresses his lips pensively. “I believe the most important part of the ceremony is some excessively fancy headwear. Hardly a thing difficult to put up with.”

He makes a small gesture with his hand, and Bertie feels something heavy settle on the brims of his favourite brown felt hat. When he approaches the nearest puddle and peers into it, he is faced with an image of himself wearing a thick flower crown of white daisies.

“I hereby crown you the King of Flowers,” Lionel pronounces in mock seriousness, and whips a bouquet of fresh tea roses from behind his back. He’s really come to be quite careless with his gift in Bertie’s presence, using it left and right whenever he feels like it.

“At the rate you’re giving me flowers, I could convert the B-buckingham Palace into a flower shop,” comments Bertie with a laugh. He raises his head to look at Lionel.

“I know,” Lionel says, spreading his hands in a somewhat apologetic gesture. “A pretty useless power.”

“No!” Bertie responds with a sudden fierceness. And then, softer, “No. That’s not at all what I meant to say.”

He can feel the smile of amusement on his lips change into that of intense, almost pained affection. And there it is, like an invisible bond - a warmth - a radiance he can feel, fleetingly, pass through him. Lionel’s smiling, too, looking at once surprised and delighted.

It comes as a sudden sweet remembrance. Bertie has quite forgotten that his magic can be like this - that it can hearten as well as hurt.


End file.
